Rap Sheet
by DigiHasaSockAccount
Summary: Ford finds out about the criminal record Stan has amassed under his name and is understandably angry about it. Stan has an idea for how to deal with it… (Warning: Spanking)


**-Rap Sheet-**

 **A Gravity Falls Fanfic by Digi-Has-A-Sock-Account**

* * *

 _Aaaannd finally back to using this account, haha. I am trash._

 _So I really love Gravity Falls. Especially the Classic Mystery Twins, their relationship is just fascinating to me... aaaaand of course that means my weird fascinations had to get into this. I had this idea of Stan and Ford used to spank each other as kids- with an abusive father, it was better to deal with issues themselves than get him involved. So now as adults, when they have so much between them... well, they have to solve it somehow, right?_

 _If you enjoy this, please let me know! I have several other ideas regarding the topic with Teen Stan and Ford, as well as dealing with older Ford's own issues, but I'd want to see that people are interested first._

 **WARNINGS: Harsh Spanking, Mentions of Past Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Looots of Intense Angst. Also... maybe kind of Stancest-y? This is mostly gen but the characters may be a bit too familiar here, I'm a bad judge.**

* * *

They're arguing again.

They're always arguing, Stan can't help but notice, and it feels like they have been ever since he arrived on the doorstep of the damn shack thirty years ago. He and Ford are nothing but furious words spat over the glow of an old television screen, blows traded in the sparks and breath of a metal monster. Tonight is no different, Ford's words coming out in a snarl, six fingered hands gesturing wildly to yet another old tv screen.

Of course, Stan can't blame him this time, not entirely. After all, it wasn't every night his brother came prowling upstairs at two AM and flicked on the tube to find the rap sheet to his name was roughly six hours long and counting.

"Why would you even consider robbing a _sofa and quill shop_!?" Ford exclaimed, stabbing a finger at the television screen "For heaven's sake, why would ANYONE even need _t_ hose two specific thingsat the same time!?"

"I'll have you know Sofa and Quills Emporium is a staple of its community!" Stan snarled right back, hands clenching into fists at his sides. Sure, his brother had a right to be angry, it wasn't like he was denying that. But that didn't mean he wasn't gonna be indignant about it.

"That is beside the point, Stanley!" Ford spits his brother's name out like a curse. "You've robbed banks in my name, _banks_! It's a miracle either of us can step foot outside without being arrested!"

He recieves a snort of laughter at that. "Well, depending on what town you're in…"

Ford gapes at Stan for a moment. He then shakes his head, throwing his hands up in the air. "I can't believe you! It wasn't enough to ruin your name, you had to go and drag _mine_ into the mud as well!"

A wince in response. Right. Not funny. Stan reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "Look, I'm sorry, okay!? Times were tough… and I don't exactly have a lot of resume friendly skills. I was just tryin' to keep this place afloat. Only one of us went t' college, remember?"

"You don't say," Ford mutters. He then lets out something between a growl and a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I don't know why I bother— you've stolen everything else from me, why should the world's view of my character be anything to you?" With those words he turns and heads for the door to the gift shop.

"Oh, come on! This is the first time I've seen you upstairs in days, you don't have to leave!" Stan exclaims. "The kids are asleep, we can talk about this!"

His brother shakes his head and keeps walking. "You don't listen to words, Stanley, you never have. A conversation with you is pointless."

"No it's not! Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I'll make it up to you, I swear!"

A snort. "Oh, you'll make it up to me, will you?" Ford shoots a dark glare over his shoulder. "Stanley, you never even paid me back for all the times I covered _lunch_ for you back in school, how exactly is this supposed to be any different?"

Those words make Stan grimace. He rubs at his face, rough stubble sandpaper against his palm. Ford is right and he knows it, because Goddamn it Ford is always right. Sure, he was sorry he got his brother in trouble, but Stan certainly wasn't sorry for what he'd done, not when laws were more guidelines than anything. And of course he can't pay his brother back, that debt is even longer than the rap sheet that's still being parroted from the television.

But the silence hangs between them and that's even worse than their constant arguments. Because okay, it wasn't always arguing. Sometimes it was the silence of curtains being drawn over a New Jersey street, heavy boots making old stairs creak after hours as Stan did his best to avoid their owner. Silence was thirty years in the basement, alone, just trying to bring the words back, and Stan would give anything to avoid that again.

"Why don't you just do what you did when we were kids?" He finally mumbles.

This time Ford does stop in the doorway to the gift shop. "I think we're a bit old for that, Stanley."

"You're the one who says I never act my age," Stan shoots back, and he can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth. But they feel like a physical something, something tethering his brother to that room and right now he'd take it. "Look, I know you're mad and yeah, you've got a right to be. And I know this won't fix everything between us, I get that. But you're right… I don't really listen t' words."

More silence. His rap sheet continues to drone on between them with the hum of the television. Stan can feel the weight of the words in the air. Christ, this was stupid, why would he ever think this would help anything? Ford would never—

"All right," Ford turns to him fully and nods, folding his arms before him. His mouth is set in a frown, brow furrowed over cracked glasses, and in that moment he looks so much like their dad that Stan feels a stab of something cold in his stomach. "You've had this coming for awhile, I think we can both agree to that. But it would have to be—"

"Whatever you want," Stan cuts in, nodding as well. He then forces a grin that manages to only seem a touch nervous. "It's fine, I can take whatever you can dish out, you ain't that tough. We had an agreement, remember?"

His brother snorts. "I think you'll regret saying that."

Stan snorts as well, folding his arms. "Yeah, okay, whatever Poindexter."

More silence, heavy, awkward. Stan shifts, taps his fingers against his forearms. He swallows. "So where do you wanna do this?" Ford doesn't answer for awhile and Stan gives a sigh. "Look, if you don't—"

"Your room." Ford cuts him off, and his voice is hard, commanding, something that shoots through Stan's spine and forces it straight immediately . "I know the kids are asleep but I doubt you want them hearing."

Stan gives a nod, sucks in a breath. "Yeah… yeah, all right." His arms drop and he turns to the hallway, shuffles his way along old, creaking floorboards. They creak all the louder as Ford follows, and in that moment Stan feels his stomach twist, feeling just a touch like his executioner stood behind him.

It was a pretty apt description, even if he knows damn well Ford would never go that far.

When they were kids, they'd had an agreement. Growing up under their father's rule had been an awful thing, something absolutely smothering. Filbrick Pines was never one for words, always preferring to allow his fists and belt to express his displeasure for him. Against that, all the twins could do was ban together, follow the unwritten rule to keep their Pops in the dark as often as possible. But they were growing boys, and growing boys did stupid things. So they'd had an agreement then. If one or the other did something dumb, did something dangerous, did something that hurt the other, they'd take care of it themselves. Sure it hurt, sure it was a bit awkward, but it was certainly preferable to what their father would dish out.

Plus it was kind of nice, knowing someone cared.

But that was back then, and Stanley's stomach is doing flip-flops as he passes through his office and pushes open the door to his room. He shuffles across worn shag carpeting, arms folded again, broad shoulders hunched to his ears as he hears Ford follow. The hinges squeak as the door shuts, a click as it locks.

Leave it to Ford to not do things halfway. Stark difference between them.

There is a metallic jingle and Stan tenses, turning to spot Ford tugging his belt from its loops. "W-wait, you're not gonna use—" The words catch in his throat as it constricts.

"When I left this dimension, I only had a speeding ticket to my name. Now I'm back and I just found out my criminal record could fill a text book." Ford folds the belt in his hands, forms a loop with aged leather. "You and I both know there's not much worse than this. If I'm going to punish you, I intend to do it properly." He looks to Stan and his expression softens a fraction, adjusting his hold so the loop is more of a small, six inch strap than a long whip.

"I won't be like dad. I promise."

Stan believes it. He does, even if every inch of his body is screaming for him to shove past Ford and leave this room and the whole stupid idea behind him. But his stomach is still a mess of knots and every nerve seems alive at the thought of all this and the disparity between his damn undershirt and boxers compared to Ford, fully dressed and all squared shoulders and the very picture of put together and he—

"Stanley," Ford's voice is hard again. "If you don't want to do this, I'm going back to my study."

"All right, all right, I'm going!" Stan snaps, turning and awkwardly kneeling at the side of his bed. His knees press into the shag carpet as he stretches his upper body across the mattress, aged springs squeaking as his stomach presses into them. The old man grumbles, fixing his gaze on the dusty stained glass across from him and trying not to think of his stupid fat ass sticking high in the air, vulnerable and weak and who the hell just let themselves sit still for a licking anyway?

Then Ford's six-fingered hand is there, pressing into the small of his back, a steady, calming weight holding him down. "I don't have a number in mind. I suspect this will be awhile, however, so I hope you're ready."

Stan grits his teeth, folds his arms in front of him. "For cryin' outloud, Sixer, if you're just gonna talk all night— Augh!" His words are cut off by the crack of the belt, the sheer _noise_ of it only matched by the sudden burst of pain. He bucks on reflex against the hand holding him down, thrashes in an attempt to twist and face his brother as he snarls over his shoulder. "Christ! You don't have to do it so hard, asshole!"

Another swat, this time on the opposite cheek. "Is that really how you want to be speaking to me right now?" He can practically hear the raised eyebrow in the smug bastard's tone. "As for the pain, I'm pretty sure that's the whole point of this, Stanley." Two more swats, each directly below the previous set and across the back of his boxers.

There is a hiss in response, Stan's eyes narrowing as he glares at the damned stained glass. All right, yes, that was definitely the point, but he didn't remember it hurting this bad! He'd been in millions of fights, taken more beat-downs than he cared to count, but somehow none of that compared to this.

He manages to keep mostly quiet for a full set. Ford keeps the blows coming in a rhythm, each lick of the belt lined perfectly with the ones that came before it. They're heavy blows, strikes that send an audible crack through the air and have Stan jolting forward across his mattress. A set of six, three on each side, and with each blow Stan grits his teeth. He focuses on the stained glass and the dust coating it, tries to form some kind of picture with it in his head, keep his mind on something else, anything else even as he bites back another cry.

The belt pauses. "Would you care to explain why I'm doing this, Stanley?"

Stan lets out a groan, feels heat creeping from his ears to his cheeks. Apparently his brother was wise to his game. "C'mon Stanford, you can't be serious." Crack goes the belt, this time in a diagonal that catches all of the previous lines in a burst of a different sort of fire. "Ah! What do you want me to say!? 'Cause I got you a criminal record!?" Stan cries out, squirming against the mattress. "Seems pretty damn self-explanatory!"

"Small way of putting it," Ford says wryly, resting the belt at the top of Stan's bottom. "I certainly don't want to be doing this all night, but I do think this is important. Let's hear some specifics. According to the record, what exactly have I done?"

Stan gives a dark sort of grin. "Not sure you wanna hear that, Poindexter."

"Try me." Ford growls.

A bitter laugh. "Well, for starters, you've committed yearly tax fraud and ya haven't always gotten away with it." The belt cracks down and he cries out.

"What else?"

Stan sucks in a breath like wind through a tunnel. "You robbed a bank in Washington." The belt cracked, lower this time, and he jolted against the mattress. "Okay, okay, it was a couple banks!" Two more times and he thrashes against the hand holding him down, kicks out, sends a slipper flying across the room. "Fuck! All right, all right, it was ten, they only caught me for two!"

He makes it to pug trafficking and five more blows, and though he won't admit it, Stan's composure cracks. Because pug trafficking was only the tip of the iceberg, was only the start of it, and when compared to the hours long list on television he could only feel his heart sinking further. "Stop, stop, this is stupid!" He finally cries, throwing a hand back to ward off another blow.

The belt pauses. "Move your hand. You don't get to decide when this stops."

Stanley shakes his head as he peers back at his brother, keeps the limb in place. "Just give me a minute! There's too many, I can't—" He pauses, licks his lips, tries to sound normal, in control even when he knows he's not and never has been. "Why are you making me say this?"

"You were the one who said you wanted to talk," Ford says coldly.

His brother lets out a groan at that, squeezes his defending hand into a fist. "Y-yeah, sure, but… this is too much! You'll be beatin' me all night at this rate! Even dad didn't make me talk this much!" His words are coming out in a panicked rush now and he can't seem to stop them. "Look, I get it okay? You think I'm a screw-up and you always have, you think I'm stupid and you always have. All I ever do is try t' help and it doesn't matter, does it!? Nothing I do can ever make up for all of it, I get it! I'm a burden and I always have been, so why don't you just come out and say it instead of makin' me spit it out for you!?"

A moment of silence.

"You think… I think you're a burden?"

Shit. He hadn't meant to say that out loud, hadn't even realized that'd been a thing, he swore he was more concerned for his ass than any of that feeling shit. Stan swallows. The silence between them is heavy, tense, throbbing in time with the pain.

"You know, you're not allowed on airplanes anymore." Stan drops casually.

Ford grabs the back of his head, six fingers twisting painfully in his gray hair. Stanley finds himself shoved face-first into his comforter, catching the scent of maple and pine-needles as the wind is knocked out of him. The arm he'd put behind him for defense is twisted at a painful angle behind his back, but he forgets that in an instant as the belt flicks across the spot where his ass meets his thighs. That spot is tender and the flurry of blows applied to it are enough to finally make him scream. "Augh! Ah, ah, AH, Ford! Ford, ple— goddamnit not THERE!" His legs thrash as the blows move to the backs of his thighs, the crack of the belt so much louder against his bare flesh.

"I do not think you're stupid, Stanley," Ford says as he continues the furious assault. "I'm well aware of what you're doing, you never did like apologizing even when guilt drove you nuts. But you were right earlier, we _do_ need to talk. It's…" The belt pauses, Ford clearly considering his words. "It's obvious you've been carrying this for a while. So let me carry it."

Stan sucks in a shaky breath, grimaces. "That's cheesy as shit."

He can practically feel his brother's annoyed frown, and that's before yet another lick of the belt catches his sit spot and makes him cry out. "Fine, if you're not ready for that yet, we'll go back to the list," Ford says and his tone is offering as few arguments as the belt is. "Don't do it for your guilt or whatever, do it because I _said so_ , Knucklehead. Also, if you _don't_ ," Another two lashes across the back of his thighs. "I'm gonna keep hitting down here and you can explain to the kids why you aren't sitting down at breakfast for the next week."

"Okay, okay!" Stan cries, squirming against his brother's grip. "I'll do it, I'll do it, jeez!" The belt pauses, moves to the top of his ass again, waits. Stan takes several shaky breaths, squeezes his eyes shut, both his trapped hand and the free one clenched into fists. There are twenty seconds of silence, just his breathing mixing with Ford's as he tries to find words. He can feel sweat on his brow, feel heat on his face and all across his backside now, everything feels like fire and it is still nothing compared to the hole in his chest.

His mouth opens. "You're banned from the Mall of America."

CRACK!

Stan's teeth click together and rattle from the force of the blow, a groan of pain echoing from behind them. As the shocking pain fades away to a throb, he takes another deep breath. "Sold some soap in your name for awhile. Gave people rashes. Go figure."

CRACK!

A hiss this time, his eyes squeezing shut as he felt the blow directly below the previous one, etching into the lines left by Ford's previous, rhythmic sets. "You joined a gang in Portland for a bit. Real dumb. Had some ridiculous hazing rituals too."

CRACK!

The list continues like this for several minutes, each crime paid for with another strike of the belt, sometimes multiple if the first statement proved to be a lie. Embezzlement. Drugs. So many petty thefts, stupid thefts, big schemes that went nowhere. With each named wrong and each strike, Stan can feel his stomach twisting in knots. Not for the actual crimes, of course not, but there were so many things he'd screwed up, so many things he'd failed at, so many things he'd gone and dragged his brother into. And not just his brother, hell, there were the couple of times he'd conned the kids into counterfieting…

At the mention of the twins the pattern breaks, the belt pausing. "You brought the children into this?!" Stanford cries. His victim winces at that, does actually feel a stab of shame for that one. There is a jingle of metal and Stan feels his brother release his trapped wrist. He does not get the chance to do anything with it before the crack of the belt becomes considerably more pronounced, the leather taking on a full arc like a whip, leaving a white hot lash in its wake.

Stan lets out a full on scream at this, eyes widening in shock and pain. His first response is to leap up from the bed on reflex, but Ford's hand is there again, pushing him down, leaving him with little to do but writhe from the sheer pain of that single blow. "What the FUCK, Sixer!?" Stan yells, trying to peer over his shoulder at his assailant and failing. "Y-you said you wouldn't—"

"You just told me our grandniece and nephew have been to the county jail, Stanley!" Ford snaps. "Do you not see the problem with that!?"

His brother freezes at that. "I-it's not like they can technically have a criminal record yet… nothing that matters anyway, I should know." He mumbles, eyes going back to that damn window again, but even to his own ears the words seem hollow.

"Tell me you don't deserve this."

Stan says nothing. Then, taking a deep, shuddering breath, he reaches forward, fingers twisting into the comforter. He does not move.

He hears the sigh Ford exhales through his nose. Then he feels six fingers catch the waistband of his boxers, feels cool air hitting his burning ass. "I need to make sure I'm not doing any permanent damage," Ford's words come over his protests and Stan's breath catches in his throat. "I will not be doing this for long, but I do believe this is fair. How many times have the children been involved?"

He grips the comforter tighter now. "Four times." Stan's voice is thin, the words nearly not making it past his lips, seemingly swallowed by his heart thudding in his ears. He has not felt this afraid in a long time.

"All right then. Count them."

There is a jingle of metal. A whistle. The belt's crack against his now bare skin is a thunderclap, the white hot blow a lightning strike that crosses in a perfect diagonal line. Stan screams, eyes squeezing shut against tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. It's too hard, too much, reminds him too much of a too familiar study and pops' strong arm, too much, too much!

"Stanley—"

"O-one!" Stan gasps out quickly, fights past the memory. His heartbeat too loud in his ears, but that precussion is nothing to the secondary crack, this blow criss-crossing the first. "Two!" He howls and he kicks his foot out in a wild arc on reflex, the shag carpeting muffling the sound of his hairy shin and knee slamming against the floor.

Ford's foot nudges his leg back into place and Stan does not resist. There is agony on his breath before he clamps his mouth shut, fights back a whine. The third blow draws the sound out, makes it more keening, like a wounded animal. "C-christ, T-three!" Stan's back arcs as he presses his forehead against the comforter, feels tears slip down his cheeks. "F-Ford, Ford please, I can't…"

"Just one more." His brother's voice is gentle now, almost soothing against the white hot lines seared into his flesh.

Stan swallows, nods, bites down on his lip try to stifle his whines. Waits.

One more whistle, one more crack, but this one is so much harder than all the rest, must have taken all of Ford's strength. It manages to catch all three previous lines, sets them all aflame again, forces Stan's mouth open to let loose something that is more of a sob than a scream. He writhes against the bed, shoulders shaking as the tears began to flow freely now. "F-four, four, that's four," He whimpers. The metal of the belt jingles and he flinches up against the bed on reflex, subconsciously trying to appear smaller. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please, I'm sorry, no more, please!"

"Stanley…" There's a thud, the sound of the belt dropping, but Stan doesn't really register it, the words flowing freely from his mouth now.

"I know, okay, I know I shouldn't have involved them! I know I shouldn't have done all that under your name, I know, but w-what was I supposed to do, huh!?" He chokes out, his voice thick and little more than messy tears. "I-I don't have any skills, I'm no good at anything! I'm a screw up, I've always been a screw up, dad knew it and I knew it too! I shoulda listened t' you, shoulda paid attention in school, shouldn't have kicked your stupid project, shoulda… I-I'm so stupid—"

The swat of a six-fingered hand across his burning ass shuts him up. "I draw the line at you insulting yourself. Only I get to do that, do you understand me?" Stanley gives a small, broken whimper at that and Ford sighs. There is the squeak of aged springs as his brother finally sits down, pats his lap. "Come here, Lee."

Stan doesn't fight him, drapes his upper body across his brother's legs while his own remain on the floor. "I'm sorry, I really am…" He sobs brokenly, tear-stained face pressed against the rough material of his brother's pants. "I-if I could take it all back I would… s-shouldn't have kicked your project, shouldn't have pushed you into the portal, should've—"

"Shhhh," Ford says, fingers running through Stanley's thick, gray hair. "You've talked enough. Shut up for a minute." He kneads at the tense spot at the back of his brother's skull, strokes past thick neck muscles to broad shoulders and rubs soothing circles across a heaving back. "You're not a screw-up, Stanley. I know you've made mistakes, but… you're not the only one in this family who has." There is a bitter note to his tone, his fingers stopping for a moment.

"F-Ford?" Stan's voice is a question.

"It's true you've made a lot of mistakes, but you're not a screw-up." Ford continues, hands moving again to knead at tension in his brother's back. "I may not be a fan of it, but even I can acknowledge this… Mystery Shack thing is a success. A small business owner is nothing to sneeze at."

Stan gives a tear-filled, bitter laugh at those words. "What, you beat my ass and now the Shack's okay?"

"…We can discuss it at a later time," Ford says after a moment of silence. "At the very least, Stanley, you have skills. You're not stupid, I've never thought that. I may not approve of your actions, but your street smarts leave mine in the dust. I saw you pop that gum into your mouth when we were playing that game awhile back— you rigged that last roll and it was the right move."

"Still a cheater," His brother whimpers.

"And I'm the jackass who beat you far harder than I should have for it, so I guess we're both flawed." Ford drawls in response. "You aren't a bad person, Stanley, you just… needed some time to find the right path. And I should have been there to help you find it, and go figure, I wasn't." His hand stills on Stan's back for a moment, then clutches a fistful of old shirt. "I ought to be the one apologizing to you."

Stan gives a shaky, choked breath at that. "I—"

"Still talking," Ford cuts him off again. "I shouldn't have let dad kick you out. I should have said something. Should have solved things like we usually did, not shutting you out. Maybe if I had, we wouldn't… things would be different."

"Oi, don't go taking all the credit," Stan drawls, and his voice is steadier now as he finally looks up to blink at brother, scrubs at his eyes and nose. "Like you said, I ruined my own life. And yours. There's a lot of 'should have's' between us, huh?"

A wry smile. "I suppose there are." Ford lets out a breath, then gently pushes his brother back. "Come on, into bed with you."

"What am I, a kid?" Stan grumbles, but he does as he's told, kicking his boxers off fully. With the spike of emotions past, he feels utterly spent, his limbs like jelly as he slides all the way onto the mattress. He gives a hiss as the comforter brushes against his abused behind, then reaches back to run his fingers over the hot flesh. "Thaaaaat's gonna smart tomorrow… yikes…"

"And a few days after, I imagine. You're likely going to bruise, sorry about that. You may want to wear pants, though I suppose you should just be grateful the kids didn't hear you," Ford says in a matter-of-fact tone that manages to sound at least a touch regretful. He pulls the comforter over Stan's shoulders, reaches out a hand to take the other man's glasses and set them on the bedside table.

"So when do I get to swat you for all your dumb moves, Poindexter?" Stan asks conversationally. "Don't think I didn't miss that whole bit about mistakes…"

Ford gazes down at the glasses on the bedside table. He takes a deep breath, then reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I… we've still go things to talk about. Maybe some other time. Maybe. But let's finish addressing this first. Listen. I'm still not happy about the criminal record, but I understand why it happened. Time seems to have fixed a lot of it anyway and I'm certain we can sort the rest of it out. It's more your recklessness and your willingness to pull everyone else around you into it that concerns me than anything."

"Gee, doesn't that sound familiar. I _really_ oughta be the one whacking you next time."

"Stanley," Ford points a finger at him. "This is behind us now, but if I catch you pulling anymore grand schemes or hear about the kids heading to jail again, I'll make this spanking look like a light warm-up, understand?"

" _If_ you catch me," Stan replies with a tear-stained grin from the pillow.

He gets another swat for his trouble, but he's smiling when he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
